Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series) (52 page)

‘What on earth are you blabbering on about, man?’ Durnus demanded. The air grew hot around the twin thrones. Hot and dangerous.

‘Oh, I’m not blabbering, Durnus, I am speaking very clearly indeed.’

‘You watch your tongue,’ growled Modren. He took a step closer.

‘Heel, lapdog!’ one of Malvus’ cronies shouted, too cowardly to show his face.

‘Modren,’ Durnus whispered, and the Undermage let the globe of sparks he had been nursing in his hand fade.

‘It looks as if my fears are well-founded, council members,’ announced Malvus. There was another cheer of assent. With great ceremony, Malvus dug into his long cloak and brought forth a tightly coiled scroll. A flick of his hand and it unfurled like a yellow waterfall, its emerald ribbon fluttering. ‘I have been speaking closely with the wise men of Arfell. With the magick increasing in Emaneska, they are delving deeper into their libraries than ever before. They have shown me many a forgotten record detailing the foundation of this council. Records from the time of the very first Arkmage, when this council floated upon the sea, on our ancestors’ ships.’

Durnus and Tyrfing both got to their feet. They could sense where this was going. Formality had all but vaporised. ‘Coin can’t buy you the thrones, so you’re citing ancient law instead, are you? Why am I not surprised?’ challenged Tyrfing.

‘The thrones were never my concern. Just the people and the members of this council who have to suffer for their occupiers’ decisions.’

Modren almost laughed. ‘Don’t you dare pretend this has to do with Krauslung’s well-being, Malvus. We know you b…’

But Malvus cut his sentence off at the knees. ‘This document,’ he said, waggling the decrepit old scroll in the Undermage’s face, ‘instructs that should two Arkmages come to the throne and consistently ignore the good pleas of its council, then there is cause for them to be, shall we say,
removed
. I move that your rule has irreparably damaged this nation’s proud history. Not only that, but you have turned a blind eye to every effort this council has made to protect its people. You have drained our coffers for private means, saturated the pride of our School with commoners and pretenders, allowed magick markets to run rife, ignored important trade delegates at the expense of your own ambitions, and last but definitely not least, have shown absolutely no determination to secure this nation’s future in Emaneska. You have been negligent. Ignorant. We will have it no longer!’

A mighty cheer went up from the crowd of council members. Malvus played the victorious general. All he lacked was a bloody sword to wave.

Farden had never seen Durnus’ parchment face so crimson with indignation, anger, and a swirl of other emotions that didn’t have names. ‘We have done nothing but seek to protect this city and its people since the moment we were appointed. You have no idea what you are dealing with, Malvus,’ the old Arkmage yelled over the noise.

‘That is right, Durnus Durnus, I do not.’ He turned to face his magick council. ‘I have dug deep into the archives with the men of Arfell. For such a powerful mage as he,’ here he pointed casually at the thrones, ‘you would think that he attended our proud School? Would have thought a record of him exists. But, most strangely, there is no record of him there whatsoever. It seems we have a rogue mage here, ladies and gentlemen. The only mention of any sort of Durnus I can find is a quiet mention of a vampyre in charge of an Arkabbey in northern Albion. In the Leath duchy. An Arkabbey that was abandoned the very same month that Vice came to power, and low and behold, almost a year later, you wander into our lives.’

‘Lives that he saved, you ungrateful bastard!’ Modren countered. Behind him, Durnus made to descend the steps of his throne, ready to show the man his lack of fangs, but stumbled slightly as he misplaced his footing. The magick council rustled with laughter. Malvus sneered. Farden wanted to silence every single one of them with a dozen well-placed fists. His anger pounded in unison with his headache.

Malvus, it seemed, had a few more cards to play. ‘Suspicious, no? And let us not get started on our good Arkmage Tyrfing’s history. We’ve all seen the scars beneath the sleeves of his robe. They are both unfit to rule!’

In reply, Tyrfing slammed his hands together and a thunderclap deafened the council. He bellowed over its dying, booming echoes. ‘That’s enough, Malvus! I want your traitorous backside hauled out of this council. Guards!’

By the door, the guards looked downright bewildered. Instead of running to the Arkmages’ aid they clumped together, as though stuck in treacle. Coin, clashing with loyalty. Malvus produced another scroll, a fresher one this time, the ink barely dry and the paper a bleached yellow. He shook that out and let it fall with the other onto the marble.

‘What I have here are the signatures of a shocking majority of this council, every single one of which proclaim that you are unfit to rule us any longer.’

Durnus glared with his blind eyes. ‘Malvus, you are deluded. Not in the history of this council has anybody dared to attempt what you are attempting now. There are measures in place to stop poisonous ambitions like yours from seizing these thrones. Yes, I too know the old scrolls. The city itself must agree with the council. The people, those you are supposed to be representing, must mirror whatever foolish and decidedly treacherous sentiments you are hawking. They must be actively crying out for a change in rule. Correct me if I am wrong, Malvus, but I do not hear such an outcry.’

Farden smiled. Durnus had shut the upstart down. He flicked his eyes aside to watch the disappointment fall like dusk on the council member’s face, but instead it was the mage who felt the disappointment. Malvus was smiling calmly. He slowly lifted a hand and cupped it around his ear.

‘Do you not?’ he said.

Durnus cocked his head, face falling. There was a faint whisper on the breeze. A murmur in the air. The great hall was silent save for furtive breaths as every ear strained to listen. Malvus had paid good coin for this moment. His tongue had been worked raw for it. He waited, a little anxiously, for his final card to fall to the table.

A chant. Drifting up from the city below. Audible even from that height. Tyrfing led Durnus quickly around the back of their thrones. Modren followed. Farden told Jeasin to stay where she was and followed too. He pushed through a small ornate door in the wall and darted up the steps, through the tower, and out onto the Nest. Ilios was there, wide awake, surrounded by three figures; two men and that thin woman with greenish hair. One of them was Loki. They were listening to the words wafting up on the crisp morning breezes. Words of misinformed, misplaced, and misunderstood discontent.

Tyrfing marched to the edge of the Nest so he could look down onto the granite patchwork of streets far below. Crowds were clumped together in the streets, marching and shouting in unison. Tyrfing pinched his eyes and read the disgruntled words from their hand-painted signs. There were preachers on every corner, doing their best to rouse the mobs even further. Soldiers and mages were gathering in the main thoroughfares, unsure as of yet what to do. The protests were loud but peaceful, for the moment. Tyrfing set his jaw and closed his eyes. Beside him, Durnus’ keen ears listened to their shouts and songs.

Farden stood behind them, between the railing and the gathered gods and wondered what he had just witnessed. ‘What in the name of Emaneska is going on?’ he asked.

‘Treachery,’ said the tall, muscular man behind him, the one with golden eyes. Heimdall, he guessed. ‘That is what it sounds like.’

‘Now! Of all times!’ Durnus let out a grunt and sent his fist flying through the railing. Stone crunched under his fingers. White light shivered around his knuckles, matching the pale marble dust that now clung to them. ‘All this work, only to be undermined by that bastard. Do they not understand?!’

‘It’s not over yet,’ said Farden, not entirely sure if it actually was not.

‘Damn right it isn’t,’ hissed Modren. He turned to Heimdall. ‘What are my men saying? Can you tell me that?’

Heimdall held his hand up for silence. He was given it. ‘I cannot hear all of them, but for the most part they are loyal. I hear them speaking of crazy people in the streets. They are still yours. Not this Malvus’.’

‘You should have seen this coming,’ commented Verix, receiving a number of dark glances. Heimdall shook his head at her. Now was not the time for her truths.

‘Ironically, we were too busy trying to protect their sorry hides,’ spat Modren.

‘You gullible little ingrates!’ Tyrfing shouted to the crowds far below. They couldn’t hear him. He doubted if it would have made a difference anyway. Their minds seemed to be made up. The hammer had finally fallen on their careers. ‘This is the Marble Copse’s work. Bunch of power-hungry purists. We’ve always suspected Malvus was at their head, well here’s your proof.’

‘It will not take much for this to turn ugly, if we are not careful,’ said Durnus, breathing hard, trying to calm himself.

Loki shrugged. ‘Seems to me that’s exactly what this man wants.’

‘Can’t we just kill him?’ Farden shrugged.

Durnus shook his head. ‘There are plenty waiting to take his place. The Copse’s influence runs deep. The city would be incited to riot, tear itself apart until we were either dead or locked away. They would be defenceless.’

‘What a shame.’

‘What do we do?’

‘We bide our time. Malvus has played his hand. We hold ours back. We bargain for time, say that we need to discuss our abdication.’

‘What about the wedding?’ asked Modren, fuming.

Durnus looked up at the sky, searching for the faint glow of the sun in his darkness. ‘It goes ahead. Who knows, if she comes tomorrow, these people won’t be crying out for our abdication; they will be crying out for us to save them. Malvus’ plan will ultimately fail. He may be dastardly clever, but his ploy is ill-timed.’

‘Be careful,’ warned Verix, in a quiet voice. She half turned away, as if making to leave. ‘The seeds have been sown. There is nothing like a storm to make seeds sprout.’

The others digested her words like sour fruit. Muddle-headed, Farden took a moment to make sense of them. While the others stayed silent, he scratched his chin. ‘Not two days back, and already things are falling apart,’ he said.
And for once it’s nothing to do with me
. That last thought was a guilty one, but he was glad for it.

“A dragon may forge two bonds in its life. The first, an essential, is the tearbook. A dragon’s mind is a complex thing. Without the bond of a tearbook, a dragon’s vast memories unravel like fraying thread. Fall away like sand in an hourglass. The tearbook holds these memories, transferred in the tears of the dragon during the initial bonding. Incidentally, this marks the transition from juvenile wyrm to adult dragon.”

From ‘Secrets of a Siren World’ - written by the exiled rider Doorna in 651

‘A
nother,’ grunted a voice, a tired voice.

‘Make that two,’ said another.

‘I thought you said you had a headache?’

‘I do.’

A pause.

‘Fair enough. Another two, Fash.’

Fash, the ample-bellied barkeep, nodded, and immediately went about pouring another two foaming ales from a spout set into the bar. Ingenious contraption.

As two overflowing glasses clanked onto the brass bar-top and Modren flicked a few coins into a nearby wooden bowl. Fash didn’t like to touch coin. Coin was the dirtiest thing a man had in his pockets, he always said. Perhaps he was right, and in more ways than one. The barkeep thanked the two men and went to serve the others scattered around the long winding bar.

Farden sipped his ale, letting it cool his tongue. The tavern, the
Insatiable Madam
as it was branded, was quiet for so late at night and for a day as busy as it had been. It had a sober air, for a tavern. Never a good thing, especially when it was an Undermage’s last night as an unmarried man. The soldiers and mages had come as invited, but the day’s work of quashing would-be riots had numbed the mood. The plan had originally been one of celebration, but after their original venue had turned a little hostile, they had switched taverns in an effort to keep the peace, and the idea of high spirits was now a little bruised. The men sat around on brass-topped tables in groups of twos and threes and talked in low tones. Every now and again they would raise their empty glasses to the Undermage sat hunched at the bar and rouse a cheer. It was the best they could do. It had been a day of questions, and the answers bothered them like black flies around a dying goat.

Krauslung had found its own knife-edge to balance on.

‘You’re telling me you can’t feel anything?’ Modren asked again, resting his chin on the rim of his glass.

Farden looked over his shoulder and counted the mages in the room. Then he counted the Written. A trio of them sat near the fireplace. One, a woman he couldn’t remember, caught his eye and he turned away. ‘Not a thing,’ he replied.

‘Not even a shiver?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you’re missing out,’ sighed Modren.

Farden looked confused. ‘Tyrfing said that.’

‘Well he’s right,’ Modren sipped his ale. It was a pale colour, wonderfully cool and suitably strong. Perfect for numbing the day. Glancing sideways at his comrade, Farden could see there was something bothering him. It could have been a myriad of things, and Farden had never been known for his empathy, but the crux of it was that his friend should have been happier on the eve of his wedding. Modren wore an informal suit of mail and dark leather. He had a frown to match. Every wisp of a half-dead memory he had of Modren had been him with a grin on his face and a glint in his eye. A different Modren sat in front of him tonight. Perhaps it was the weight of Malvus’ little plot and the day rounding up trouble-makers. Perhaps he was nervous about the wedding. Perhaps he was just upset that Farden had come back only half the man he had been. Farden was clueless. He decided to get him talking.

‘Nevermar’s made me numb to it,’ he admitted.